


Promises and Pledges

by cruisedirector



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Canon Dialogue, Canon Related, Canonical Character Death, Conversations, Drama, Duty, Fellowship of the Ring, Gondor, Heteronormativity, Internalized Homophobia, Intimacy, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Explicit, Open Relationships, Requited Love, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Royalty, Secret Relationship, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-22
Updated: 2009-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-03 14:14:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruisedirector/pseuds/cruisedirector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Steward's son is expected to marry and produce and heir, whether it's what he wants or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Joust

**Author's Note:**

> Movieverse. Thanks so much to Sasjah, Sonia, Donna, Cinzia and X for reading and comments.

"Why aren't you married, Legolas?"

The query seemed innocent enough. Though elves lived tens of dozens of human lifetimes, they usually married relatively young, so most of the kin of Legolas had wives and families. Whenever the hobbits could not persuade Boromir to train them in the use of weapons, they clamored for stories from Legolas and Gandalf about other races and ages long gone. Such tales existed only as legends in the Shire.

"Good question, Merry. Aren't you ever going to marry?" demanded Pippin. Though Boromir sat with Aragorn on the periphery of the discussion, he tensed to hear the banter. His father, the Steward of Gondor, had asked him the same question repeatedly in the past few years, becoming increasingly impatient with any excuses his son offered. Boromir did not know whether the elf's reasons for shunning wedlock were the same as his own, but he hoped that Legolas was not called upon to make apologies so often as himself.

The Prince of Mirkwood was immortal; he did not need to worry about providing an heir for his kingdom. Legolas tilted his head toward Pippin and for a moment Boromir thought the elf would smile before his usual sobriety won out. "I have not yet met the one to whom I wish to bind myself for all the ages," he said gravely. "You do not have a wife, either."

"I'm much too young!" Pippin objected with a squeak as Frodo, Merry and Sam burst into laughter and jokes about the likelihood of any woman ever being foolish enough to marry Peregrine Took. Desperate to divert attention away from himself, the smallest hobbit looked around. "What about you, Boromir? Why aren't you married?"

Boromir waved a hand in dismissal, but everyone had glanced in his direction; even Gandalf was listening. Beside him, Aragorn's head lifted expectantly. "I have no time for women," the man of Gondor scoffed, then instantly knew the choice of words had been in error; he should have said that he had no time for a wife.

Just as he feared, Merry demanded, "No women at all then?" and the small band laughed about Boromir's virtue. He attempted to smile with them, plotting to turn the question onto Sam if they kept at him. Yet he could not repress the unease that always rose in him when the talk turned to marriage -- the sense that his true desires must be evident to anyone who questioned him on the subject.

"Perhaps he has been too engaged in manly pursuits," said a quiet voice by his side. Boromir whirled to see Aragorn gazing speculatively at him, half a grin twisting the side of his mouth that was not occupied by his pipe. The words and the look on the Ranger's face made Boromir feel as if Aragorn had punched him, all while pretending to be joking. Challenge loomed beneath the surface of the calm blue eyes, telling Denethor's son that Isildur's heir knew the secret he would not speak...

"While you gossip like court ladies, it falls to a man to fetch your dinner!" Boromir snarled, surprising himself with the vehemence of his voice as the laughter of the others fell away. At once he felt shamed, but he knew that if he spoke again, he would only reveal himself further. He had meant to hold his bitterness in check, but on this journey rage sometimes welled in him without reason, particularly when the Ringbearer was present. Turning, he stalked away from the rest of the Fellowship, climbing up the side of the hill toward the trees.

"Boromir." Knowing that he would look more the fool by striding away than standing to hear what Aragorn had to say, he planted his feet and turned, waiting for the other man to reach his side. "I meant only to jest with you. You have been so somber of late." The gentle smile encouraged response, but Boromir did not return it. "I would not mock a man for..." It was rare for Aragorn to falter, yet he paused, shrugging awkwardly. "...not wishing to marry."

"A ruling Steward's eldest son must marry if he wishes to follow his father," Boromir retorted. "As must a king, to produce an heir. That is duty, son of Arathorn."

The other man held his eyes, refusing to accept the implied challenge. "Perhaps we would do well to learn from the elves, who bind themselves for love above duty."

"The fates of the kingdoms of immortals are not bound to the beds of their rulers," replied Boromir. "Nor do the laws of Gondor place duty over love. Though it is uncommon, a lord may wed a tavern maid."

"Yet he could be held in chains for bearing too much love for a soldier."

The frankness of the statement sent ice shooting through Boromir's veins. Was Aragorn going to dispute his right to serve as Steward? "As the captain of Gondor's armies, I have more pressing concerns than love between soldiers," he said angrily. "In the camps of war, we fight terror and despair. I do not waste strength hounding men for taking comfort where they will."

To his surprise, Aragorn dropped his eyes. "Nor would I. A man's love is his concern alone. He may yet be a great warrior or a great king." The son of kings looked up at Boromir once more, and his expression held no ridicule, only understanding.

Now Boromir hesitated. Aragorn did not seem to be speaking of him at all, for he had not said steward but king. In Minas Tirith, Boromir had heard many rumors about the failings of the line of Numenor -- mostly from his father, who had little respect for Isildur's blood. Perhaps Aragorn had heard similar stories about his family history. With a toss of his arm suggesting that it was no great matter, Boromir asked, "You do not believe that some pairings are unnatural?"

"Men sometimes commit great evils and call them love," said Aragorn. "It is unnatural to force a woman or befoul a child, to use sorcery to turn a lover's affections or to destroy a rival."

Those were statements with which no man of honor would disagree, yet they avoided the previous argument. Carefully Boromir added, "Not for a man to bear too much love for a soldier?"

"That is no more unnatural than for an elf to love a man."

Boromir raised his eyes past Aragorn's head, studying the hills beyond their camp, for he did not want to reveal the relief cresting in him. "You should be careful of your speech," he muttered. "In Gondor, even rumors may destroy a warrior. It is well for you that you are promised to Lord Elrond's daughter, for I think none would question your love for an elvish princess."

"Lord Elrond will not permit us to marry until -- unless I become King of Gondor," Aragorn replied. "I have fallen in love with a woman I can rarely see. Even among the elves, there are those who wonder why I have chosen such a grueling fate." The Ranger sounded as though he expected Boromir to ask him that question. Boromir very nearly did so, but the voices of the others carried up to them, and Aragorn turned.

"It grows late. Let me get my bow, I will hunt with you."

The proud warrior of Gondor stared uneasily at the retreating form. He knew Aragorn had guessed his most dangerous secret, yet did not seem repulsed, nor pleased to have discovered a flaw in his rival. Perhaps he was plotting to use the secret to turn Denethor against his son. But then why claim that the loves of men were the concern of no one else, not even their king?

Perhaps, like many of the elves, Aragorn believed that all men were weak. Their loins could awaken at the slightest provocation -- the sight of a joust or the smell of clean linen. Lord Elrond might have his own reasons for wishing Arwen separated from her mortal lover, but that did not explain Aragorn's unexpected sympathy.

By the time Boromir reached the others, Aragorn had collected his bow and quiver and was strapping a knife to his belt. "Stay and mind the little ones, we will go in search of food," the Ranger told Legolas. And indeed, as they hunted and skinned the meat, they spoke of routes around the lake and the need to replenish their arrows, and Boromir very nearly forgot to keep his guard up.

"It has been long since I had a companion on my travels," Aragorn said softly, pressing a hand to the shoulder of Boromir, who glanced at him.

"Now you have eight."

"It is not the same. I have escorted many through the wilds, but most of my time is spent alone, outside the company of my own kind." Boromir stared in amazement, unsure of the warmth in the other's flickering gaze. "I know you do not trust me," added Aragorn. "You think I would stand in your place in Gondor. In truth, Boromir, I covet nothing that is yours save your esteem."

"You have that already," the warrior replied brusquely. And realized as he spoke the words that they were true.


	2. Kindling

After several days, the companions forgot their teasing of Boromir, and Aragorn persisted in asking his opinions of the routes and their provisions. With that change, the others became easier around Boromir as well, particularly Frodo who had not seemed to trust him from the beginning. Gandalf had accepted his promise to see the Ring destroyed in Mordor, yet the little one gazed upon him uneasily and always made certain others were present when the man spoke to him.

At first Boromir suspected that Aragorn had warned them to treat him with pity, and he seethed quietly. Was it not humiliation enough that the fate of his lands had been entrusted to a halfling who let the fears of a wizard lead him? But the Fellowship banded together as the long days passed, and Boromir came to enjoy the friendly banter among the companions, with stories to fill the long days and laughter against the dark nights.

Aragorn walked with him often to scout ahead or to guard the rear, asking about the captain's triumphs in battle and describing his own life defending the wilds of Eriador. Though the Ranger could slay and skin an animal with the deftness of a hawk, he could also admire the beauty of birds in flight and the fierceness of a badger with pups. Aragorn quoted poetry as well as Legolas and loved to describe the untamed beauty of the land, pointing out features of the fertile valleys and colorful stones of the hills as they passed. Sometimes he seemed more a bard than a guide.

Boromir, who had always ignored poetry in favor of military history and tactics, found himself listening intently. Most of the stories he knew were bawdy tales told by men in battle camps which could reduce Gimli to guffaws and make the hobbits blush. Aragorn would bite his lip, struggling to keep his dignity, but on a few occasions he bent double with laughter and leaned on Boromir for support. Once Boromir had to haul him to his feet, their hands on each other's elbows, and though the laughter had faded, they did not immediately draw apart but stood together in giddy distraction until one of the others spoke.

Slowly the warrior came to acknowledge his pleasure when Aragorn sought him out for opinions, conversation or quiet company. On the cold evening when the Ranger drew his cape around them both, falling asleep shoulder to shoulder, Boromir delighted in the freely offered warmth. On the damp morning when he woke from a dream with his heart pounding and Aragorn's name on his lips, he silently conceded the longing that his flesh already proclaimed.

This, then, would be his doom, this desire that brought joy and pain together. Much as he wished to become Steward of Gondor like his father before him, he wanted just as fiercely to remain at the side of the heir of Isildur. Aragorn was a man of integrity and mercy, fearless in battle and willing to lay down his life for the safety of his people. As the bond of kinship between them grew stronger, Boromir knew that his own ambitions might have to take their place behind those of the only man worthy to wear the crown of his land.

But beneath the surface ran another feeling, darker than love and more bitter than loyalty. Boromir felt it most strongly when he was in the presence of the Ringbearer, but even when he walked alone, it whispered to him, making promises for Gondor and the strength of the Stewards. It fed him dark images of Aragorn, filled with lust and violence. When he strode away from the others to hunt or scout, sometimes his head would clear, and he feared the source of his visions. Then anger would well in him, and he would see the path to triumph all too clearly.

The Ring promised the safety of Gondor and his role as its protector, with Aragorn always in his debt.

After their encounter with the crebain, when Gandalf insisted instead upon taking the Pass of Caradhras, the Ranger decided that one of them must risk visiting the tiny village nestled in the foothills for provisions. There would be no food to be found high on the mountain and they had no smoked meats nor grains, nor did they carry enough blankets and rope to make the journey safely. "You'll come with me, Boromir," he stated. Both Gandalf and Legolas looked askance, but neither voiced an objection, although Boromir suspected that Gandalf would rather have gone with Aragorn and left a warrior to guard the little ones.

For more than a day the two men descended the rocky hillside toward the hamlet, carrying the small treasure they had brought from Rivendell. It was a pleasant journey and they kept a rapid pace, eating as they walked, sleeping for only a few hours. As they approached the little village, Boromir took note of how filthy they had become on their travels and wondered briefly whether they might be refused accommodations. The fine cloth of Gondor that he wore had frayed, stained and become crusted with dirt. Although he could not see his own hair, Aragorn's hung like an animal's matted fur.

For a man who had always borne the standard of his home with pride, it was a shameful state to meet with strangers, though he had often found himself so when fighting on the borders, and this small cluster of houses could scarcely be called a town. "I think we need not worry about unwanted guests coming close to try to learn our business," he said. "We smell like horses."

Aragorn grinned. "If we can find lodgings, we can clean ourselves and our clothing. Then we can do our trading in the morning and set off."

The old stable that had been furnished to serve as an inn was filled with stale smoke and cobwebs, but the proprietor made no comment about their appearance and asked no questions about their business. They ate cheese and pudding for the first time in a month while Boromir drank weak ale and Aragorn smoked his pipe. A mountain stream ran behind the inn, and they washed their cloaks and tunics in the icy water.

When they went inside, they asked the innkeeper to build a fire and to bring basins of water so that they could take turns scrubbing the soot from their faces and bodies. Aragorn borrowed a needle from the innkeeper's wife to mend the holes in his breeches. Boromir found himself watching as if entranced as the Ranger's scarred hands carefully stitched the fabric together. He had been taught to think of mending as menial work, left to scullery maids in Gondor and to young soldiers in the camps of war, yet his friend appeared to be skilled at the craft.

"I can fix yours as well," Aragorn offered.

"It is my shirt that has ripped."

"Then give it to me."

Boromir felt heat flood his face as the other man glanced up. He tugged the shirt over his head, scrubbed at it in the basin and tossed it into Aragorn's hands without meeting his eyes. Then he turned back to the basin, hoping to quench the fire that had turned his cheeks red. Most of the dirt had been scrubbed from beneath his fingernails, turning the water a muddy brown. Though Aragorn's fingers were similarly tanned and scabbed, he came from a world of white elven hands, delicate and fine as no man's would ever be.

Turning, Boromir caught his own bright hair reflected in the metal blade of his newly polished sword. Though it was unstained for the first time in weeks, his darkened complexion and uneven beard still marked him a man of dirt and sweat -- a man who unlike the fair elves would one day become dust. As he gazed into the mirror of the blade, Aragorn came into view behind him, dressed only in a smock left open at the neck. The younger man felt goosebumps rise over his still-damp throat; he spun around, though he knew that he should look away.

Framed by the high white collar, Aragorn's face looked like a portrait of the kings of old, otherworldly as the huge sculptures of the Argonath, too astonishing to belong to any living man. His hair, which had been matted and filthy when they reached the inn, fell in a shining curtain at the sides of his face, reflecting hints of bronze from the fire. And to Boromir's shock, the bright blue eyes, no longer surrounded by the grime and haunted dark circles, were filled with the same wistful hunger that he had seen in his own reflection.

He stepped forward with rare hesitation, longing to touch the loose hair that draped the other man's cheek yet knowing that he must hold himself in check. He felt heady as when he had first seen the Ring at Elrond's council, with light gleaming on its surface the way it now played over Aragorn's features. This temptation, equally intoxicating, might prove just as lethal or just as rewarding. Boromir would not willingly have endangered their quest, nor his future king's bond with the elvish princess, yet he ached to surrender to his desires, if only for a moment.

Gruffly he said, "I have never seen you so clean."

"Nor I you." Amusement flared and faded. Aragorn's eyes flickered briefly to Boromir's bare chest. The glance made him burn like some potent drink swallowed down too quickly, and he felt his breathing grow harsh. Defying the turmoil in his body, he gave in to the small, permissible urge to stroke his fingers through the lock of hair softly brushing the Ranger's cheekbone.

Aragorn closed his eyes and hissed out a shivering sigh, turning to the side as if he would kiss Boromir's fingers, but he stopped and bowed his head. "You must know that my heart is not free."

Boromir felt a chill dampen the flames inside him, but he was not surprised. He had doubted that Aragorn would betray Arwen, and in truth would have been sorry to learn of any faithlessness that might stain his friend's nobility. "I know that you are betrothed," he nodded.

Aragorn's eyes opened as he lifted his chin. "You misunderstand me. She would not be troubled by any passing pleasure shared between us. The elves do not hold such things in the same shameful regard as men do."

"Then...you have been with..."

"For many years now I have known no other. I do not have the span of many lifetimes to unravel the mysteries of love, and I have seen the pain it can cause. Arwen would not ask me to deny myself what relief I might find on this journey, but I fear it is not only relief that we seek from each other."

Breaking away from the piercing gaze, Boromir clenched his fists to stop himself from clutching his friend to him. He would have offered relief, comfort, and whatever measure of passion the man would have allowed, but this was no soldier eager to share solace before the havoc of battle. This was Aragorn, his sworn companion in the Fellowship of the Ring. Aragorn, last Chieftain of the Dúnedain. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir to the throne of Gondor.

And this was Aragorn who had not loathed Boromir upon learning his most dishonorable secret, but who had shared blankets, tactics, trust. Aragorn who had asked for his company on this journey, a journey he might easily have made with another. Aragorn who stood before him with fire lighting his features, confessing that his yearning for Boromir might be more than passing pleasure.

Aragorn who cared for him, it seemed, with some measure of the love Boromir bore for him.

Filled with wonder such as he had not known since he first dreamed of the broken sword, Boromir felt his lips curve upward. He could see Aragorn's confusion at his happiness, for Aragorn believed he had voided his friend's hopes. Boromir stroked his hair again, cupped his face, whispered his Elvish name. "Hope. That is all I seek, and what I find in you."

His companion's voice was urgent. "There are many roads that we must walk before this quest ends. My destiny may bring me into conflict with yours, for my will alone cannot dictate my choices. I did not think it would be kind to you -- " Falling silent, Aragorn placed his hand against Boromir's face, mirroring the warrior's gesture. "Boromir. I have never seen you smile so." Wistfully Aragorn's mouth turned up in response.

It was strange and wondrous that in a semblance so little like a sovereign, so open and trusting as a child, Isildur's heir could command such devotion. Boromir pulled Aragorn to him, too swiftly for the other to resist. The kiss he pressed to the parted lips was chaste, reverent, yet at the same time the most intimate touch that Boromir had ever shared. "You have treated me like a friend when other men might have avoided my presence, offended in reputation if not in principle. I will always love you as a brother for that. And you have let me know your heart. I would not add to your burdens, but if it is your wish, I will be yours tonight, even if you cannot be mine."

He expected further argument, for he knew it would not be so simple for either of them, and feared that pity had stirred Aragorn's consideration. Yet he received only a long, searching gaze, followed by another smile and a head bowed in acceptance. "I fear that I am too much yours already, though I cannot give you all that you deserve," Aragorn whispered. Boromir had not dared dream that their desires would converge in such unity. If they could not remain so -- if the burdens of the Ring and of Gondor were destined to separate them -- he hoped he would always draw strength from the memory of this night, this moment.

He lowered his arm to Aragorn's waist while Aragorn's muscular arms went around his neck, fingers gripping the curve of his shoulder. The Ranger smelled of soap and the herbs burning in the fireplace, of solid oak and sharp pine, of home. "I wish that we could have known one another in a simpler time," Aragorn said. "I wish that I had met you before the Ring came into our lives..."

As Boromir regarded the face he already knew by heart, he saw too that he had never known it free from the grip of darkness. He meant to inquire further, but Aragorn pressed closer, and kissed him, and Boromir's thoughts flew away like sparks from the fire. The other man was as strong as himself, and as eager, now that he had put aside his restraint. They grasped for what they wanted, grappling together, crying out in triumph and surrender, in joy.

Boromir felt no regret over a future he could not foresee. In the unkempt room of the little inn, he knew only the bliss of fulfilled longings, the blessing of requited love.


	3. Silence

Just before dawn, when the sky to the east had turned violet outside the small window, Boromir watched Aragorn wake once more. He no longer had the vigor to rouse him as he had twice during the night, laughing that his bedmate must be getting old before Aragorn proved him wrong. But Boromir could not get his fill of looking.

Now the blue eyes squinted sleepily at him. "Have you been awake all night?"

"I could not waste a moment for sleep." The darker man's grin refuted the disapproving shake of his head. "Do not concern yourself; I will still be able to march."

"I will never worry about your stamina." Aragorn pushed hair from his eyes as he rolled onto his back, still smiling. Boromir flung himself over the relaxed body before a loud growl from his stomach startled them both to laughter. "Nor your appetite. We should eat and finish our business here so that we make good time before nightfall."

They rose, washed and dressed in comfortable silence, pleased to find that their newly clean clothes had dried in the night before the fire. The inn had only stale bread and watery stew to offer for breakfast, but the broth was hot and softened the seeded crust. It did not take long to find traders, and in the tiny village, no one asked how two men of the wild came by rare treasures to barter. They had taken their supplies and headed out of the valley before the sun cleared the highest peak.

"What are you humming?" Aragorn asked as they traversed a bubbling stream, climbing with ease in the cool morning air.

Boromir gave a start; he had not realized that he was giving voice to the cheery martial music playing in his head. It had been a very long time since he felt such carefree joy. He flung an arm around his companion's shoulders. "It is a song of Gondor. We sang it as we marched."

"You will have to teach me the songs of Gondor. It has been many long years since I served your grandfather, and I do not remember them all."

"I will teach you anything I know."

They both paused in their steps, and Aragorn turned. "Boromir, you seem like a different man since we set out from the Fellowship, and I do not think it is only my company."

The warrior had started to smile, but at the earnest look on the other's face, he paused, dropping his arm. "What do you mean?"

"Tell me truly, do you still think of taking the Ring to Minas Tirith?"

In the clear air, staring into concerned eyes, Boromir answered with words that were true at that moment. "No. No longer. I serve the Fellowship with you."

Aragorn smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. "Sometimes you have worried me, Boromir. I had thought...but no matter. I would never wish to fight you."

"Because you know you could not win," the younger man grinned, breaking the somber mood, and they began to boast of their most daring feats. To Boromir, Aragorn seemed less humble, more at ease with his birthright. He wondered suddenly whether Isildur's heir had heard the call of the Ring as well.

But he did not ask. Instead he listened as his friend told stories of his youth at Rivendell, how he had met Arwen, their reunion at Lothlórien, her father's efforts to keep them apart, and the many quests upon which he had embarked to serve his legacy without trying to claim it.

"Aragorn, they say that the age of the elves is ending. Perhaps you may earn your birthright only by accepting it."

"I had not thought to hear such words from you. You said that Gondor had no need of a king."

"The throne still stands in the great castle. For all of my life, it has been empty. I could fill the Steward's chair like my father before me, and I would give my life for my city. But my men fight and die to defend the borders of our lands, and if indeed men will rule the next Age, Gondor must have more than a Steward. She needs a champion of her past and future."

Aragorn stood very still, staring at Boromir gravely, and the younger man knew that the Ranger had craved his acceptance even more than his love. "You have conquered your doubts about me with greater ease than I," Aragorn said quietly.

"I know now what manner of man you are. I know you to be a great warrior and a great leader. You do not claim to be fearless but you face your doubts. This makes you stronger than a man who does not know enough to be afraid. You know that I want what is best for Gondor, and I know that Gondor needs you."

Aragorn blinked and turned to the horizon, but his lowered lashes failed to hide how much Boromir's words had moved him. "Be it so or not, I could not rule without a Steward," he said. "If it should come to pass that I ascend that high seat, I will always have you beside me." The son of Arathorn extended his right hand in a formal gesture; the son of Denethor clasped it with his own. "Let us march together, my brother."

Though this bond of family offered more lasting hope than any endearment, Boromir wondered whether it signaled an ending as well as a beginning, for he knew their affections could not continue once they resumed their journey with the Fellowship. Yet at dusk, when they stopped to rest at the entrance to a mountain cave, Aragorn lay beside Boromir under his worn cape and reached out an arm in welcome.

When they caught up with their companions the next day, in cold gray weather without any sun, their moods had shifted. The Ranger had fallen silent, answering questions politely but curtly, while Boromir felt agitated and quarreled over trivial matters like the best way to clear brambles. His enjoyment of the cheerful greetings he received from Merry and Pippin was tempered by the knowledge that he and Aragorn might never again share the familiarity of the past day. Gandalf seemed pleased with the provisions they had brought, but as they spoke their concerns about blistered feet and windburn, it became clear that the journey high into the snows would be difficult for all of them.

Though exhausted from the long climb, Boromir found rest elusive. Long after the others slept, a hand closed on his shoulder. He turned to find Aragorn slipping silently behind him. The depth of his gratitude made Boromir weak with shame. He rolled over, hid his face in the other man's tunic, and fell quickly into a deep, dreamless sleep.

So it went as they climbed the mountains. Aragorn continued to share blankets with Boromir, and under cover of darkness they sometimes shared furtive pleasure as well. But by morning the Ranger had always moved away. And they quarreled, about the route, the need for fire, the rate at which they consumed food, and the dangers of the mountain to the others. Boromir itched to make for the Gap of Rohan, while Aragorn seemed inclined to go through the Mines of Moria, though Gandalf ruled against both proposals and insisted on climbing Caradhras.

Then came the day when Frodo, sliding down a snowbank, lost his treasure in the snow. Boromir picked it up. The Ring held him entranced, whispering his name with clear intent, promising strength, the safety of Minas Tirith, long life to rival the line of Numenor. He did not notice that Aragorn's knuckles had whitened on his sword until after he had handed the band of gold over to the Ringbearer, when he reached awkwardly to unsettle the snow from Frodo's hair. He saw at first only the eyes of his beloved, darkened with unexpected ferocity.

Though they barely spoke for the rest of the day, Aragorn came to him in the night, his breathing harsh and his muscles knotted with tension. The initial, brutal contact that left bruises on Boromir's wrists and blood on his lips gave way to shocking tenderness, with Aragorn's hands and lips soothing the injuries they had caused. Boromir could feel him shaking.

While the sky remained dark, he woke alone. A clouded moon had risen which lit the landscape with ghostly fog and shadows. Rising, Boromir put a hand on the slick, icy wall and followed footsteps in the snow until he found Aragorn behind the rocks that guarded the entrance of the cave where they sheltered. The Ranger sat grimly sharpening his sword.

"You are still angry with me?" Boromir asked.

Aragorn turned his head slowly, his face unreadable in the eerie light. "Why should I be angry?"

"You thought I would take the Ring from Frodo."

The older man looked away again. "I was not angry. You were not yourself, Boromir. I was frightened for you."

"And you blame me for that." His voice sounded as bleak as he felt in spirit. "Or perhaps you are just ashamed of me."

Aragorn glanced back at him. "I am not ashamed."

"Then why do you leave?"

"I could not sleep. I did not want to wake you with my troubles."

"Every night before first light you pull further away from me. I understand that you do not want the others to know, but you barely give me your friendship in the day. You are more intimate with Frodo!" Boromir heard the jealousy in his own voice, and Aragorn glanced around as if afraid that he would wake the others. "You want silence even here, where there is no one to hear us."

"We must all be as brothers. Not all the others would understand. If they thought that I cherished you above the rest..."

"You need not fear that anyone suspects that! As soon as we come face to face, you treat me not as a brother but your rival for Gondor."

In the dimness, Aragorn's eyes were as dark as they had been earlier when he stood gripping the hilt of his sword. Stepping forward, he put his hands on Boromir's shoulders. "I am sorry. I thought that you did not want the others to know. I know many of the men of Minas Tirith would not accept such a thing. I did not wish to make you dwell on it if you found it shameful."

"I feel shame only when you turn from me." Though he had drawn strength from his anger a moment before, the Steward's son felt his control slipping with his rage. "I know you think I am weak. I hear the call of the Ring. I struggle with the will of my father. I had hoped I had proved my worth as a soldier, but perhaps my eagerness to be with you has made you doubt my manhood as well."

Aragorn slid his hands from Boromir's shoulders around his back, pulling the younger man against him. "I do not think you are weak," he whispered. "You have given your life to defending Gondor, and you are the finest soldier I know." Boromir tasted blood on his lip where the Ranger had bitten it earlier. "Forgive me. This morning when you held the Ring, or rather when the Ring held you in its power, I was afraid that I might have to attack you. I do not doubt my strength, but I was not certain that I was strong enough to do that, not to you."

"You would have done what you felt was needed," Boromir assured him.

"If the others had not been there, I would have tried to reach you with words from my heart. But I did not know whether you might scorn me if I spoke them aloud."

For an instant Boromir saw Aragorn not as others saw him, but as he saw himself -- an exile and wanderer, not a king. He returned the embrace, fierce with relief. "Aragorn, I love you. Have I not told you so, in every way I could find to reveal it?"

Aragorn pulled back, weary lines circling his eyes. "Yet your heart is divided as mine. I have sworn my life to protect the Ringbearer, but I would also keep you safe. If it is my destiny to reach Gondor, I would have you at my side. I can resist the power of the Ring for that, but can you, Boromir? What if you had to choose?"

Boromir heard an echo of the voice that had spoken to him when he picked up the Ring, and found that he could not answer even when Aragorn took him back into his arms.


	4. Breaking

He raced through the trees, the cries of orcs crashing in his ears, yet not loud enough to silence the horror in his own mind. He had tried to take the Ring from the Ringbearer whom he had sworn to protect. He had attacked Frodo. Worse, he had accused the little one of working for Sauron and called down curses upon him and the other halflings. And now, it seemed, his foolish utterings were being answered.

Even if he found Merry and Pippin in time, he had doomed their quest and damned himself. Galadriel had said that hope remained as long as the company held true, but Boromir had betrayed them. He had been unable to return to the others after Frodo fled; he could not face the Fellowship.

He could not face Aragorn.

Boromir could no longer feel the presence of the Ring, but he could still hear the words it had murmured to him, growing ever louder since they had left Lothlórien. It had called his name and promised power, safety, strength. It had offered him the means to protect Minas Tirith, the redemption of the land, the pride of the people, the Stewardship of Gondor. All this he might have resisted. Then it made another promise.

Frodo had tried to warn Boromir that he was not himself, just as Aragorn had tried, that day on the mountain when the Ring placed itself in his path. He knew now that Frodo's stumble had been no accident; the Ring had sought him out, inflaming the suffering of his icy feet and stiff muscles even as it whispered of triumph, protection, salvation. Such a small thing. Yet in the end it destroyed him with a vision of something even less substantial. The dawn of a new age, the end of all the suffering Boromir had known, all that he had witnessed in his father and had seen throughout his land, arising from a single, shining source.

Gondor's King. At his side. Forever.

It had been the furthest thing from his mind when he encountered Frodo in the woods. But seeing the little one's suffering brought back his own pain from the day before, when he and Aragorn had argued bitterly about whether to bring the Ring to Minas Tirith. Before Gandalf's fall, Boromir had been certain that he could convince the man to turn west with him, to defend Gondor at his side in the coming battle. He had as much as told him so, in Lothlórien, but Aragorn had said nothing, and Boromir realized that the Ranger might intend to accompany Frodo into the fires of Mount Doom rather than to fight for his birthright. Then he tried to persuade Aragorn to convince the others to rest in the White City before going to Mordor, but Aragorn would not hear of it.

Boromir thought only of his home. When they passed the Argonath, Aragorn had sat straight in his boat, the semblance of the kings of old overlaid on his features. He should have been Gondor's king, yet he followed a halfling on a fool's mission planned by an elf. Boromir would have served him gladly in Minas Tirith, would have commanded armies and won victories in Aragorn's name, but the man held stubbornly to the charge placed on him by Elrond and Gandalf, serving other people, other lands.

Among the trees, Frodo shrank away from Boromir, looking around for Aragorn as if the man were his guardian. It angered Boromir, as did the hobbit's wide eyes and pinched mouth, the sorrow, the fear. Frodo had no right to expect Aragorn to escort him to Mordor, no more than he had the right to bear the Ring, save by chance. _Boromir_, a voice whispered to him as he spoke to Frodo, at first calmly, then with growing anger. The dark visions of Galadriel replayed themselves in his mind. The White City shrouded in darkness. His father mad. His brother dying.

Then a surge of brightness, eyes like blue glass, a mighty sword. The hand of deliverance. The prophecy fulfilled. Gondor's king at his side. Forever.

Now that dream brought a surge of bitter despair. Boromir had been raised to place duty and pride before his personal desires; thus he had always served Gondor with an undivided heart. He did not expect to find happiness beyond what victories he might win, in the gratitude of his people, and most of all in his own honor.

Then he met the only man who had ever inspired in him a will to serve. Isildur's heir had won not only the loyalty of the Steward's son, but his passionate devotion. Boromir could no longer divide his feelings for his home and its rightful liege. The evil had seen his weakness and preyed upon it. Aragorn had tried to warn him, but foolishly, he had not not wanted to understand the danger. So he betrayed the oath of fellowship and the kingdom he was sworn to serve.

Perhaps he had guessed before that it must end like this. Perhaps he had even begun to hate Aragorn at the moment when he first began to love him.

He could see Merry and Pippin now, surrounded by orcs and even more loathsome creatures. Raising his weapon, he charged, but he did not have his shield -- he had left it on the ground near the boats when he had followed Frodo into the woods. The first of the vile foes fell in a bloody heap. In the heat of battle, Boromir could not hear the voices in his head, but he was badly outnumbered. And something was wrong -- these orcs were not fighting the weaker enemy. In fact they hardly seemed interested in fighting. They were circling the little ones.

Aragorn! He wanted to cry out, but knew he had no right to summon that name. Instead he blew the Horn of Gondor, unsure whether his profane lips could call the armies, now that he had forsaken his quest. "Gondor will see it done," he had promised Frodo, but Gondor had failed. He had failed. He could not protect the hobbits now.

Where were the others? He had not come far since they came ashore. Merry and Pippin could not have run great distances on their small, brave legs. A sea of orcs rose before Boromir, threatening to drown him. He swung his arm. One orc was stabbed in the belly, another downed by the backthrust of his blade. Screaming, falling all around him, there were too many of them, too much blackness. Blackness that he had brought inside himself, and hence among them all. But he could not think of that, not now. The Horn again. They would come. They must.

Another orc down. The Hobbits swung their smaller blades. Boromir grasped at hope, at the dream to which he had no right: Gondor's King, at his side, forever. He would have tried to spare Aragorn this battle, but he was afraid, not for himself but for the little ones who stared in terror as they watched him spin and duck under the filthy metal of the enemy. He jabbed one orc in the eye with his elbow but had no time to kill it, caught one more on his sword and tossed it aside. Too slowly. Something slammed into his shoulder. He thought at first that it must be another orc and moved to shake it off. He choked in agony.

An arrow. When he did not try to inhale, it was like a fierce kiss...the taste of blood in his mouth and painful pressure against his chest. Boromir could not stop to think about it, could not even take the time to nod assurance at Pippin's stricken face. He took up his sword again, kept swimming through the sea of orc though he could no longer breathe. Another dart knocked him to his knees. He gasped, and his chest caught fire. It was like the pain that had assaulted him in the inn when Aragorn first gazed at him.

Gondor's King. At his side, forever.

Aragorn had not stopped then and he would not stop now. Boromir could do no less. With a roar he swung his sword again, clashing against metal, slicing into orcs. When the final arrow dropped him, he thought at first that one of the jagged edges of the enemy weapons had cleft him in two. From his knees, he could only watch as orcs swarmed by him, siezing the valiant hobbits who tried to raise their swords in vengeance.

Boromir knew that he would never rise again. He looked up into the eyes of a vast dark creature -- a beast of earth and rot, aiming at his head. Now he would die among the orcs on the soil of the land he had failed.

A crash, a cry. Like an eagle, the shape of a man flew into the beast. Gondor's King, at his side, though the foul creature nearly took Aragorn's head off before he could regain his footing. Boromir's vision clouded while he sank back against the hillside, unable to stay upright though he was frantic to shout warnings. It was already too late for himself, he knew; the thought of Aragorn dying needlessly in battle for him hurt him more than his wounds. Each breath was torture, more difficult even than resisting the Ring. He forced his eyes to stay open, focused on the shapes swinging past the blurred tips of the arrows protruding from his torso.

A cry, a crash, and the beloved face came into sharp focus above him. Blood leaked from Aragorn's lip and from a gash in his forehead; sweat shone on his face, his eyes glittered with tears. Gondor's King. At his side. But Boromir had a duty, the last thing he could ever do for the Fellowship, and though he wanted only to plead for forgiveness with his last breaths, he forced out the necessary words: "They took the little ones!"

"Be still." The faint pressure of the well-loved hands, barely perceptible above the force crushing his chest, moved from his shoulder to his face. He felt more pain from that gentle touch than from the sharpness buried deep in his lung, for it reminded him that he would never again feel the welcome weight of Aragorn's arms pinning him down, embracing him as they had in Lothlórien, offering solace and joy. He had given up any claim on Aragorn earlier when he attacked the Ringbearer.

"Frodo...where is Frodo?"

Though time had expanded for Boromir, with each breath a new trial, it seemed that Aragorn hesitated, choosing his words with care. "I let Frodo go."

"Then you did what I could not. I tried to take the Ring from him." The confession did not surprise the other man, who like the Elf-Queen seemed to read Boromir's thoughts. "Forgive me," he implored, knowing that it would change nothing. "I did not see it. I have failed you all."

"No, Boromir. You fought bravely. You have kept your honor." They were words he might have hoped to hear, but he did not believe them.

Gondor's king moved a hand to remove one of the arrows buried deep in Boromir's body, but the warrior stopped him with a gesture and a groan. "Leave it!" The wounds draining his life offered the only peace left to him, the dark nothingness where knowledge of his guilt and shame would die along with him. "It is over." He would not live to see the destruction he had wrought, the suffering that would be Aragorn's inheritance. "The world of men will fall, and all will come to darkness, and my city to ruin."

Aragorn gripped Boromir's fingers tightly between his own, refusing to allow him to slip away. "I do not know what strength is in my blood," he admitted. "But I swear to you, I will not let the White City fall. Nor our people fail."

The pledge pierced Boromir as deeply as the arrows. It stunned him that the other man would offer such an oath, after Boromir had broken his vows, betrayed his Companions, shattered the Fellowship and brought the shadows to his beloved land. His eyes swam with tears that blurred Aragorn's features, the last image he wished to see as a living man.

"Our people." Every word brought sharp new anguish deep in his body, blood in his throat, numbness in his legs. Yet he repeated, "Our people." A promise for the Fellowship, for Gondor, and for all the race of men.

With the very last of his strength, Boromir reached for his sword, and Gondor's King placed it in his hand. It no longer mattered whether he died a soldier, but he would not pass without swearing loyalty to the man who had come so close to his own darkness yet had not yielded. He drew the hilt of the weapon to his heart, unable to feel his own fingers, scarcely able to sense Aragorn's breath on his face and the warmth of his palm against his skin. The world contracted until it held no pain -- only steadfast eyes that held an undying promise.

"I would have followed you, my brother." That for the many small acts of kindness, the quiet talks and shared concerns, the hand extended in friendship and the heart shared in love. "My captain." For Aragorn had become their leader, the hope of the Fellowship and the race of men, the head of Gondor's armies and of the White Tower now lost to Boromir. He had but one prize remaining, not a gift, but something earned and given freely, with no trace of the darkness that had gripped him for so long as he had known Aragorn. With it he gave his world into the other man's keeping, in dawning trust and faith that his devotion had not been misplaced.

"My king."

He would have offered a vow of love as well, but his battered lungs refused to draw another breath, and the veil of peace fell over him. Boromir surrendered to it with Aragorn's majesty filling his vision and arms holding him fast.

Gondor's King. At his side. Forever.

 


End file.
